


Consequence

by spacemonkey



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the time to talk as they shoot each other a look that means business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2009, set in the 90's, no specific era really

It's not the time to talk as they shoot each other a look that means business.  
  
Kirk keeps up the talking, his voice droning and Jason only half listening as he watches a girl walk by. Her ass wriggles knowingly and Jason stops listening to Kirk completely.  
  
And he claims to be the good one. Lars makes half an effort to smirk, as James burns a hole in his forehead. He waits, keeps his sight on his drink, until James grunts, annoyed and their eyes meet again.  
  
"That's fine, whatever," Kirk snaps at Jason's retreating back. He looks at James, looks at Lars, then gets up and walks off. Now it's time for talking, but they don't. James continues to drink, Lars knows he has to; just as well as Lars knows he should only be tipsy. He finishes Kirk's drink, orders a few more from a girl named Kristy, and tries to remember what they have left in the minibar upstairs.  
  
He chews at his fingernails, watches Jason chat with the ass wriggler and her friends, and searches for Kirk. He's gone, probably upstairs or out scoring some blow. Lars thinks he should go find him, join him, and they can share, but he sits across from James silently, bored out of his mind and anticipating.  
  
Fucking freezing outside anyway. Hotel bar, hotel room, hotel fucking broom closet would be more comfortable than out there.   
  
James stands suddenly, bumping the table with his knee and cursing. "Charge it to my room," he mutters. Lars doesn't. He tells Kristy to put it on Jason's tab, like they used to, and that makes him smile as he joins James near the elevator.  
  
They ride up in silence, joined by an old lady who keeps giving them suspicious looks from behind her black rimmed glasses, then she gets off on the 7th floor and they go up a further three.  
  
James steps off first and they pass his room, pass Kirk's and stand outside Lars' room. Lars takes his time getting the room key out of his pockets, holding back laughter as James gets impatient. "This a game to you?" he asks.  
  
"Of course," Lars answers. He opens the door and notices the look on James' face. "Always has been," he adds, and misses the look this time as he walks inside. He can picture it in his mind though, and it's painful and liberating.  
  
They're not meant to talk, inside the room or even on the way there, but Lars knows rules mean shit. He goes to speak, pick at the scab a little more, but finds there's nothing really to say. Probably why the rule was created in the first place. He can't even remember when they decided on it, just knows it was silent and unanimous.  
  
Lars closes the door, snaps the chain in and along, and flicks the light off when James turns it on. James flips it back on, smacks Lars' hand away and gives him a look that hasn't scared Lars for years.   
  
He leaves the light on anyway, knows they could spend hours there, flipping the switch and hating each other more and more by the second.  
  
James raids the minibar, doesn't find much in there, and gives Lars that same look. He shrugs helplessly. "I haven't touched it," he says, more to himself because James doesn't want to hear it. He sits down on the bed, always a fucking waiting game with James, and continues to even out his fingernails with his teeth. Beats the hell out of cutting them, he's found, and soon enough they're passable and the bed is dipping next to him.  
  
It's a familiar smell, musky cologne, sweat and soap. Vodka on his breath, on his clothes, on him everywhere, and Lars doesn't lean in. He wonders what he smells like to James, if it's familiar or calming, or just something that  _is_. Accustomed to it, thriving in it, hating it. Not being able to escape it. It sounds the most likely, and Lars is the same.   
  
"Why do you do that?" James asks.   
  
Lars gives him a look, baffled and so fucking unsure of himself. "Do what?"  
  
James doesn't answer. Probably has no idea what he's talking about, just making things up in his head. Lars doesn't prod, but it's going to annoy him, and one day he'll probably ask. They've completely broken the no talking rule as it is, though, and Lars stands. Jacket off, tossed on the bed next to James. He kicks his shoes off, leaves his socks on so his feet don't get cold, and James watches. He sets his drink down on the ground with the careful precision that only a drinking man can manage, knocks it over with his foot and doesn't care.   
  
Today it might be different. Lars thinks that every time. And it never is. He walks over to the wall, undoes his belt, his button and leaves his pants loose. But today it might be. Today might be different. Lars places his hands, palms flat against the wall, bent slightly at the waist, and he counts backwards from ten, breathes in deep and out thin and listens to the noises James is making. Rustling, the snap of a lid, muttering and shallow breaths and then James is breathing in his ear. His pants hit the ground, and Lars steps out of them.  
  
Fingers on his asscheeks, moving closer, closer, and prodding, and Lars takes a deep breath. James fumbles, and his touch is alien. He breathes faster, and James pulls his fingers back. Steadies himself, positions himself, and Lars knows it’s not going to be different.  
  
"Stop," Lars blurts. It's quiet, almost impossible to hear over their breathing, but it's feels desperate enough to be noticed.   
  
James freezes, his arm trembling against the wall, and they stand there for a while until James says, "What is it?" He brings his arm away from the wall, ghosting it over Lars' hip then pulling away. "Lars?"  
  
"Would you take a fucking step back?" Lars snaps. Harsher, louder than he expected, but it gets James' attention, and in seconds he's free. Lars shuts his eyes, if only for a second, and draws in a shaky breath. He's waiting to hear footsteps, walking away and out the door, taking the scent of sweat and vodka and that fucking expensive cologne that James claims is cheap, but it doesn't happen. "Okay."  
  
"What was up your ass?" James asks. It's bad, but he offers a nervous laugh to support the joke.  
  
Lars turns, the complete 180, then opens his eyes to look at James. He's looking casual, cheeks flushed and mussed up hair, but he's flexing his hand against his thigh, waiting for a confrontation. Lars wants to start one, so badly, he wants to scream and shout and throw things, because today is gonna end up like that anyway.  
  
But he doesn’t. He stares up at James, and James blinks down at him, drunkenly, and then James smiles. It’s crooked, and it barely reaches his eyes, but Lars knows it’s never happened before.  
  
He wraps his hand around James’ neck, pulls him down and crushes their lips together for a hurried and sloppy kiss. James mumbles, hand slamming against the wall, and Lars flinches at the loud bang. He laughs, and James hooks his hands up underneath Lars’ thighs, and lifts.  
  
The smile is back, Lars wrapping his legs around James’ waist like he’s some sort of fucking girl, and they stare at one another like they’re both fucking girls.   
  
“Why do you do that?” James asks, again.  
  
“Fucking do what?”  
  
James shakes his head, and his mouth finds Lars’ neck; a distraction. But Lars has to know. James is fucking paranoid or flipping out or something and he’s gotta ask again, “Seriously, fucking answer the question, James.”  
  
As it turns out, today is the same as every other fucking day.


End file.
